


Changelings and Children

by Corvid_Knight



Series: Changeling [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Adoption, Dave you're not supposed to keep the changeling, Fantasy AU, Gen, fae fuckery, my tumblr is knight-of-heart-and-art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-07 23:18:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13445520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight
Summary: Dave's baby brother gets replaced by a faerie changeling. Dave isn't exactly an idiot, so he notices and embarks on a quest to get Dirk back...with a little unexpected assistance.





	1. Chapter 1

You step out of the house and wonder for a second where the hell Dirk got to in the minute or so you let him out of your sight. Then you see him sitting in the dew-damp grass, watching you solemnly. 

Even before you realize that he's sitting in the center of a perfectly round ring of white mushrooms, it's pretty damn apparent something's up. 

It's kind of weird, too, because you've heard stories about people getting stuck with changelings and not even noticing it for days, weeks, months—but this lil' guy? He looks kind of like Dirk; right size for a two year old, same almost white skin from being inside all winter, towheaded mop of hair that won't lay flat under any circumstances, round babyface that's probably going to end up disappearing in a couple more years and turn him into an adorably awkward coltish kid, same grave expression that says he's storing everything he sees so he can comment on it when he earns the ability to form coherent sentences (on further reflection, Dirk is a really fucking weird toddler), but you're immediately aware that it's _not_ him. It's just not. 

" _Bro..._ " The kid holds up his arms, sniffling a little. He looks pretty damn scared—his red eyes are filling with tears that're already on the edge of spilling onto his cheeks. And yeah, you've heard that changelings just _look_ like kids, that all they're going to give you is crocodile tears and feigned affection, but shit. 

You step into the circle of mushrooms, crushing a couple under your feet, and lean down tp scoop up the little boy, settling him on your hip and taking a careful look at him. Yeah, the tears seem pretty real. So does the affection, as he loops his arms around your neck and blinks at you. 

"Hey there," you say to him, freeing up one hand to carefully wipe the couple of tears that've managed to escape away. "So what's your name?" 

He cocks his head, eyes narrowing a little bit in an expression that's a hell of a lot more calculating than anything Dirk would've given you. "...Dirk." 

"Nope. Try again, lil' dude; I know what my bro looks like." You're careful to keep your tone calm, a light grin on your face. To a kid, this could be seen as a game. And fae _love_ games; you've got the scars to prove that. If it's a game, all you need to do is play along right, and you can get Dirk back. 

You have to get Dirk back. 

The changeling on your hip frowns and blinks a few times, obviously trying to figure out how to handle a human who refuses to accept him as its offspring. "Dirk?" he says again. This time he sounds more unsure, though, and his lower lip trembles as you shake your head. 

"Nah. C'mon, I know you're not him." And, because there's tears welling up in those ruby eyes (fuck, they're the same color as _yours,_ instead of the honey-amber of your little brother's—was that a calculated move from the fae? Get you to accept him and forget Dirk?) you add, "Hey, I'm not mad. Worried about him, is all. Don't you think your adults would be worried if you up and disappeared?" 

The kid stares at you for a second, shakes his head emphatically, and starts crying. You'd say that he bursts into tears, but it's not dramatic enough for that, not really. No hysterical wails, no whooping sobs like the rare tantrums you've handled of Dirk's. This kid just looks at you and his eyes fill to overflowing and he just _cries._ Other than a couple quiet whimpers and out-of-synch gasps, he doesn't make a sound. 

It's hella distressing on your end despite that. 

And of course you react pretty much how you would if it really was Dirk in your arms crying. You curse under your breathe and you cuddle him up to your chest, making soothing sounds and smoothing his hair down as he buries his face in your shoulder and clings to your neck so tight he damn near strangles you. 

Fuck. He acts like a real kid. Like your kid. You don't know what the fuck you're going to do here. 

The changelings mumbles something you can't make out with how muffled his voice is. 

"What?" Gentle. Keep your voice gentle. That's actually not as hard as you'd expect it to be in this situation. "Can't hear you with my chest, man. Ears are up here." 

"Don' _hur'_ me." He's still kind of muffled because he refuses to let go, but you understand him this time. "Please?"

"Why would I—" You stop. 

How do you detect a changeling again? 

You _hurt_ them, of course. Draw blood to test it, press cold iron to their skin to see it burn, throw them in a fire and see if their screams shatter glass. These are things every adult who's got a child under their care knows, just like you know not to give your truename to any of the fair folk unless they're offering theirs in return. It's simple shit, shit everybody knows. And you can't imagine doing any of it to the kid who's crying against your chest. 

After all, you know what he is already. 

"I'm not going to hurt you," you tell him, rubbing his back through his light shirt. "I swear that on the sun and the sky and the moon and my name." You can feel the oath take hold. From the way the kid goes stiff, so can he. "But I gotta get Dirk—the real one—back. He's my bro, man. Can't just leave him." 

The changeling whimpers again, his little hands tightening on your shirt. When he looks up to meet your eye again, the expression on his face is a mix of babyish fear and weary resignation. "...down." 

"What?" 

"Down!" He squirms, and you get what he wants. You set him back on the ground, automatically going to take his hand because that's what you'd do with Dirk. But he grabs onto two of your fingers, holding on tight and trying to pull you along despite the fact he doesn't have nearly enough weight to force you to do anything. 

You go along with it anyway. Not like you have a better option.


	2. Chapter 2

The kid leads you behind the house, straight towards the edge of the overgrown area that could almost be called a forest if the trees weren't so small and shitty. It's still somewhere you'd normally hesitate to go, at least when you're only outfitted with the limited charms and weapons you have on you right now. 

The changeling does not hesitate, however. Not at all. And you're sure as hell not letting go of his hand. So you follow a two year old child (or at least what looks like one) into a place where stronger and wiser men than you would flatly refuse to go without protection against the denizens within, and you only think about how fucking stupid what you're doing is a little bit. 

You keep your eyes on the kid's white-blond hair, for two reasons. One, you need to make sure he doesn't just slip away from you (even though you're fairly sure he won't. Not for any particular reason. Your gut just tells you he isn't going to trick you and run away, is all.) Two, some of the eldritch beasts that might claim this wood as their home require that their prey acknowledge them before they can take any kind of action. If you're focused on the changeling, you won't give them that. 

A side effect of your focus is that you don't realize that the trees you're passing are a hell of a lot bigger than they should be. Not until the kid flinches at something you don't see or hear, drawing back to cling to your leg. 

"Hey—" If he's lost, you're fucked. 

"Up! Up up _up—_ " He's nearly weeping, and the fear in his voice short-circuits nearly everything in your brain but the protective parts. You've got him in your arms again before he can get a fifth repetition of the word out, but he grabs at your arm as you try to draw your sword. "No!" 

"No?" You can actually see the thing now; it's a darker black against the shadows of the trees, a humanoid shape slipping around the trunks of trees and only ten feet or so away from you. "Why—"

He hits your shoulder with both fists as you turn to look at it, face twisting up in a very familiar expression of frustration. " _No,_ Bro, no! It gives what _you_ give, no!" 

You take a second to process that statement. 

It gives what you give. In other words...

"We can pass so long as I leave it alone." 

The kid makes a wordless sound that manages to convey _finally, the idiot gets it_ perfectly. You reach up to ruffle his hair and look away from the shadow thing, walking in the direction the changeling points out for you. If it follows, you don't see.

The trees you pass keep getting bigger, and as a consequence it gets darker. You can still see where you're going, there's no danger of not actually being able to see, but it's more like twilight than the almost-noon sunshine you ought to be seeing at this point, thanks to the leafy canopy overhead. 

(The thought of altered time in the lands of the fae comes to mind. You really don't like that thought. Then again, are you even anywhere strange right now?) 

(...okay that was a stupid question.) 

The changeling squirms in your grip again and you put him down before he can ask, taking his hand as he reaches for you. He stays a bit closer to you now, more guiding than trying to pull you along, whispering words to himself that you can't quite make out. 

They make your head ache and your vision blur a bit, though. Or maybe it's just this place. Whatever the case, you don't exactly register the point at which the trees thin out and the sun shows through the leaves again. In fact, you only realize that you're out of the forest when the changeling stops and pulls on your hand, waiting for you to stop zoning out. 

"Wha—" When you do come back to this plane of existence, you have to blink a few times. There's no trees in sight, just stunningly green grass and softly rolling hills and sky that's so fucking blue you want to lie down and stare up into it. And you can hear, faintly, the sound of waves pounding into rocks. 

You're nowhere near the sea. At least you _weren't._

"Kid, where are we?" 

He looks up at you, confusion flitting across his face, and just shrugs. "We're here." And then he stretches up to wrap his hands around the hilt of your sword and tries to draw it, whimpering in pain as he touches the steel. 

"Fuck—hey!" He doesn't want to let go, but you pull his hands off maybe a little more roughly than you should, kneeling down so you can turn his hands palm up and see what he's done. And yeah, if you didn't already believe he was fae you would now, because his hands look like he's burned himself, angry red lines branded across his small fingers. "Dirk—" _Shit._ "I mean—oh, fuck." 

He's watching you. Maybe there's traces of wetness in his eyes from the pain, but his expression is surprisingly calm. "Hal. Hal? Hal." As you hesitate, not really sure how the fuck you're supposed to deal with the fact that a fae just volunteered some approximation of its name, Hal closes his eyes and bows his head. "No iron. Can't." 

The sword. You don't want to leave it, don't want to go up against the fae with absolutely no protection. "But—" 

" _Can't._ " 

Fuck. 

He's a changeling. He's fae. Believing him should be out of the question. 

You squeeze his hands gently. Let go. Get to your feet. Draw your sword and carefully drive it point-first into the turf—normally you wouldn't do that, if you hit a rock it'll fuck up the blade, but somehow you know there won't _be_ a rock—and let it stand there as you reach up to slip the cord you wear the polished iron gear around your neck on off over your head, hanging it on the hilt of the sword. Once that's done, you look down at Hal. 

He nods and holds out his hand. "In?" he asks, looking up to you and pointing at a line of white, egg-sized stones you're sure weren't there a minute ago. They form a ring, like the one he was sitting in back in your yard, but a _much_ larger one. You're willing to bet it circles the full hill. 

"Yeah." You try to remember what you know of faerie forts. Not much. "In. We're going to go get my lil' bro." 

Hal grimaces a little, but he takes your hand and leads you towards the grassy hill and the dark entrance in it that you're _positive_ wasn't there a moment ago. "Dirk." 

"Yeah, man. We'll get Dirk." 

You hope.


	3. Chapter 3

It's really fucking dark in the hill. Under the hill. Wherever the fuck you are, you only go a few dozen feet before it gets dark enough that you can't see the kid who's got ahold of your hand. 

You manage maybe three minutes of that state of affairs before your paranoia ( _what if that's not his hand anymore? what if something snatches him away and you can't hold on? what if?_ ) gets the best of you. "Hal." You almost call him Dirk again, as you stop walking and pull him to a stop as well. "C'mere, man." 

"Bro?" You can hear the puzzled frown he's got to have on his face right now, but he steps back up close to you, hands latching onto the hem of your shirt as you pull your hand out of his. "What?" 

"You got me a lil' worried about losing track of you, is all." He squeaks when you lean down and pick him up, but doesn't struggle even a little bit, just reaches up to pat your face. "Can we make this work, instead of you walking?"

"Mhm." Hal's hands run across most of your face, not quite poking you in the eyes or slipping his fingers into your mouth. Then he loops one arm around your neck and puts the other on the your shoulder, getting a handful of your shirt. "Go." 

"Which way? Just forward?" You really do not want to get lost here. 

"Yeah. In." 

Okay. In. 

You walk. 

At first, it feels like you're walking over loose dirt, what you'd expect to find in a freshly-excavated animal burrow. At some point, though, you realize that it's become hard-packed earth, more like a cart track, and after some length of time that you have no way of measuring, you're sure that you're walking on some kind of stone. Maybe pavingstones, maybe some kind of stone floor; you can't tell. It's too even and smooth to be natural, though. 

(Then again, what even counts as "natural" when fae are involved? You've heard tales of faerie craftsmen coaxing stone into place to build roads, castles, monuments—all without using a single tool other than their voices and maybe a few musical instruments.) 

Eventually you begin to be able to see again. 

This is a corridor. The floor's cut stone, maybe black marble. It's smooth enough to hold a reflection, whatever it is. The walls are alternating panels of white and red stone, not as polished as the floor but not raw either; they've been carved into intricate murals, complicated designs running from the floor to the ceiling ten feet above your head. (Hal yanks at your hair hard enough to make your eyes water when you try to take a closer look at the carvings; you only have time to see that there are trees and deer and hounds so well carved that you half expect them to turn and look at you.) The ceiling itself is the source of light—there are dimly glowing orbs strung from the highest point, enough to let you see your surroundings but not enough to keep you from being anxious as fuck about what might be ahead, in the section of hallway that's not yet illuminated. 

Hal pats your face and squirms to be put down. When you do, he grabs for your hand and looks up at you, tilting his head. "Careful," he says, and it's really damn unfair that a kid that small should have that kind of concerned look on his face. "Careful, bro, okay?" 

"Of course." You're not even sure what being careful entails, in a place like this. How many people have gone into a faerie fort and came out in one piece? 

...probably not all that many. The odds here aren't all that great for you. 

He looks up at you for another moment, then pulls you to a red section of the wall, one that's covered in carvings of what look like twisted vines. There's an unmarked spot at what would be just above waist level for you, though, and Hal stretches up to put his palm flat on it (there's room all around his hand; this was obviously designed for adults) and pushes. 

The wall swings inward—technically, a door set in the wall opens, but you're going to call it like you see it—and it's like you get slapped in the face by the scent of every good thing you've ever eaten. There's so _much,_ and suddenly you're so fucking hungry you want—no, you _need_ to find the feast you know is there, gorge yourself, ditch the kid and—

"Oh holy shit fuck you," you breathe out, all one word. Hal is looking up at you, eyes wide and scared as he waits for you to make some kind of move, and you give him a reassuring smile. "It's okay. It's okay, man, I'm—being careful. Up?" 

"Up," he agrees, with very obvious relief in his voice and on his face, and holds up his arms as you bend down. You don't even try to step into the next room until he's settled safely on your hip again. 

You've only been in a place like this a few times in your life, and the opulence of this room puts those experiences to shame. It's been arranged for some kind of party, a ball, a—a feast, yeah, because the table is _full_ of food. Beautiful food, delicious food, how the hell can you make it through and not stop for at least one taste—

Hal's hand creeps upward, twines into your hair, and jerks hard enough to snap your head around. He's strong for such a little kid. 

_You don't eat fae food. Not if you want to get out of here on your terms, stupid._

"Thank you," you murmur to him, catching sight of a door—a normal dark wood door, incongruous where it's set between mirrored walls—on the far side of the room. 

It takes longer than you'd think it should to cross the room, but nothing other than your own desires tries to stop you. If you were on your own, you probably wouldn't've made it through, but every time you slow Hal pulls at your hair, silently reminding you that you have a purpose here. You need to get Dirk. 

The door isn't locked. 

The next room is very, very dark; the light from this room doesn't seem to illuminate it at all through the doorway. Hal makes a soft noise, staring into the darkness for a minute before looking back at you. "...down." 

"But—" If you put him down, and go in there, and let go of his hand, you'll never find him again. Never find your way out, either. 

Hal squirms and twists in your grip, though, and you reluctantly do what he wants. He shakes his head when you the to take his hand, through, grabbing your shirt and tugging on it. "Off." 

"...what?" 

"Take it _off,_ bro." He gives you a look that suggests you're an absolute idiot and pulls harder, trying to get your shirt off himself. He's entirely too short to be able to do that, but it gets the point across. 

You have to shrug and go along with it. Trusting that he knows what he's doing is the smartest course here, anyway. So you kneel and strip your shirt off over your head and let him pull it out of your hands, watching as he messes with the cloth until you figure out that he's trying to turn it inside out. 

_Oh._

"Let me see, dude." He can't quite work out how the sleeves are supposed to go, but it takes you maybe five seconds to finish what he's started. "Can I put it back on like this?" 

Hal nods, but clarifies, "Backwards." 

"Alright." 

Well that's mildly uncomfortable. But Hal lets you pick him back up once you've got it situated, and you step into the darkness. 

The door shuts behind you, you can hear the latch click back into place, but it doesn't make much of a difference to your ability to see. It's pitch black even before the door closes. "Hal, where—" 

"Forward." 

You take three steps forward and _know_ that you and Hal aren't the only ones in here, even before the hands start feeling at your legs and torso. They're cold, not like the hands of anything living, and smaller than an adult's. There's...a lot of them, though, and even if the hands belong to children you know that numbers will win over size every times. 

Except the hands just slide over your shirt without getting any purchase, and maybe the fingers catch a little bit at your legs but it's definitely not enough to stop you. Something that isn't remotely human whines in angry frustration. 

Hal giggles. It's kind of a scared sound, but also a deliberate and obvious _fuck you_ to whatever being is trying to stop you. 

The things growl and keep trying to grab you, but other really weirding you out, it's completely ineffective. You count fifty steps, and then you bump into a wall and every cold little hand on you slips away as you grope for and find a doorknob. 

Hal yelps as you open it, but you don't understand why until the wall of water hits you. 

It's cold and tastes of salt, and despite your desperate grip on the changeling, it rips him out of your arms and away from you. When you open your mouth to shout for him, all you get is a mouthful of seawater that leaves you choking in the moment before it rushes over you, pulling you under and drawing you farther along. 

_Helpless. You're helpless, you're fucking helpless and you're going to drown in this goddamn faerie fort, underground in some place that's so fucking far from where you should be and Dirk is—_

_Oh, Dirk. I'm sorry._ You can't breathe. Can't think. Fighting the current isn't working, nothing is working, but you keep trying, until something slams into your head and you gasp in a lungful of cold water and everything goes away.


	4. Chapter 4

Oddly enough, you wake up 

And you don't seem to be dead. 

Unfortunately, the first thing you have to do is cough up what seems like a couple of gallons of water. It burns your throat coming up, too, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut tighter as you retch and wonder if it's possible to puke up any of your important organs. When you finally manage to stop choking, your mouth does taste a hell of a lot like blood, so you're not going to discount the possibility yet. 

You don't even try to open your eyes as you get to your feet. Call it cowardice—if the first thing you see is a tiny limp body, you know you won't have the strength to get up, or to do anything, really, other than curl up on the cold damp stone and wait for the fae to come cart you off to somewhere else. Once you're upright, though, you lean against the stone wall and attempt to pry your eyes open. 

"...fuck." The word's a raspy croak. _Pry_ is the operative word here; salt water's dried into a crust that binds better than glue would. In the end, you have to spit on your fingers, and rub the moisture across your eyelids so you can open your eyes without ripping out your eyelashes and possibly some chunks of skin. It still hurts. 

You're the only living thing in the corridor, though. It's not the same one from before; this one is made of rough-hewn slate-grey stone, lit by the much more mundane fashion of torches set in the walls, far apart enough that there's patches of unlit hallway in between them. There's no one here but you, dead or alive. 

"Dirk? Hal?" 

When you call their names, a child starts wailing. It's far off and echoey, but he sounds frantic, desperate. And, again, everything in your head that deals with rational thought switches off, because _that's your kid._

You trip over your own feet, falling and slamming your face against the stone. Normally you'd stop for at least a second, figure out if the blood that's now running down your face is from a cut lip or from a broken nose, but right now? Right now you spit out blood, haul yourself to your feet, and run in the direction you think the crying's coming from. 

As you pass each torch it snuffs itself out, leaving darkness behind you. The still-functioning logical bit of your brain hopefully points out that that's an indicator that you're going the right way, although you're not really sure how the fuck they got to that conclusion. Doesn't matter, though; the wailing doesn't get any further away, so you _have_ to be on the right track. 

The hall ends in another door. This one's made of some pale wood, inlaid with what looks like gold. It's also locked. 

You have had enough of this stupid fucking shit. 

Two steps back, and you slam your foot into the damn door, a few inches away from the doorknob. It hurts like hell, but you do it again, three more times, until something cracks. (It might be a bone in your ankle.) 

_Now_ the door opens when you try it, and two voices shriek for their bro through sobs. 

It looks like a goddamn throne room, or what you'd expect a throne room to look like. Big, bright enough that you have to blink against the light and wince at how that makes your eyes burn worse. There's people here—well, maybe not people. Fae. Clad in fancy dresses and elaborate suits, with the ears of animals or fangs that peek out from their smiles under the masquerade masks they all seem to be wearing. You see weapons, too; many of the fae carry swords that look decorative but would probably be just as deadly regardless. 

They move aside to form an aisle, and you see that yes, there is a fucking throne. The lady seated in it is tall and dark and your eyes want to slide off her, your mind won't remember how she looks other than her hair is longer than should be possible and her smile is full of shark's teeth. 

And her slim hands rest on the heads of two toddlers, both blindfolded with thin strips of magenta cloth, both sobbing but not trying to move away from her. She smiles at you, and you realize that you can't tell the boys apart. 

"Someone's _determined,_ " the dark lady purrs at you. 

You want to tell her to go fuck herself, but that'd just lead to you getting torn apart here and now. "You took my kid." 

"Oh?" She shrugs, giving both boys a gentle shove forward. They stumble towards you, still whimpering and grabbing at each other for a second, hands reaching out to grab for any other support. " _Well_ then. I suppose all you need to do is choose _your_ child and go, isn't it?" 

The bitch is almost laughing at you, as you step forward and kneel in front of the kids. They've both stopped now; one's trying to fumble off his blindfold, and the other is just standing very still, hugging himself. They're both still crying, more quietly now, but it still makes your heart ache. 

You don't know what you're going to do until you do it. 

"Dirk. C'mere." And you reach out to pull the boy who's tugging at his blindfold into the arc of your arm, helping him pull the strip of silk away from his eyes and smiling as you get a look at his golden eyes. "Hey." 

The lady makes an irritated sound and clicks her tongue, and the other kid's shoulders slump. 

But. 

"Hey, Hal. You too. Come here." He resists for a second when you touch his shoulder, his face twisting up in confusion. "C'mon, bro." 

He shudders when you call him that, stepping forward to throw his arms around you and going limp as you wrap your free arm around him.

"That is _not_ your brother," the dark lady on the throne snaps, and the court around you echoes with the whispers of the other fae. "It's—" 

"No?" It takes a second to get the kids in a position where you can hold them and get back to your feet, but you end up settling them one on each hip, standing up and glaring at her. It's hard to meet those wild fuschia eyes, but the two sets of arms looped around your neck give you a hell of a lot more strength than you'd ever have on your own. "You took something from me. _Twice._ Once on my own territory, and once when you tried to murder me. Me, a fucking _guest_ in your home, invited by one of your own and bringing no weapons." 

(This is doubletalk and you're very conscious of the fact that a little bit of logic will make it fall apart. Either Hal is your ward, and they took him, or he's fae, and he invited you in. You can't actually have it both ways.) 

"I'm taking back what you took from me. That's all. My brothers." And you glare at her, daring an argument. 

The dark lady stares back at you. 

Then she laughs, and waves a hand, and when you turn around there's a clear path through the laughing crowd to the door. You have no idea how long that is going to last, though, so you walk as quickly as you can without seeming to run. A fae, this one dressed in grey and black chased with red and wearing a mask the color of blood, offers you an amused grin and opens the door for you, and you nod at him and step through. 

Into the sunlight of midday, in your own yard again. The door behind you is your front door. Your sword is stuck into the earth in the center of a circle of mushrooms, with your medallion hung on the hilt. Other than that, everything's just as you left it. 

Hal laughs and starts trying to pull off his blindfold, and you set both the boys down and sit down to get it off him. Dirk is staring at this new boy who looks just like him, his forehead furrowed with curiosity. 

"This is your bro, Dirk," you tell him, glancing at the pink blindfold in your hand before looking at Hal again. "Uh. Your twin. His name's Hal." 

Dirk tilts his head, chewing on his fingers for a second, then nods. "Hal." 

"Dirk," Hal says right back, grinning at him. 

"Yep." You can't help but grin. You fucking _love_ your little bros. 

Both of them.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [**this tumblr post!**](http://child-of-crows.tumblr.com/post/169977533668/rescue-and-adoption)


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